


when the damage is done

by theheadgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Spy Percy, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheadgirl/pseuds/theheadgirl
Summary: On January 13, 1998, Percy Weasley died, another casualty of the Second Wizarding War.Three years later, Oliver sees him again.





	1. when i open my eyes, you disappear

Oliver Wood is lost.

The evening had broken up about an hour ago, with Oliver turning down Rhys' offer to Side-Along since "mate, you're just as pissed as I am, you'll kill us both. I'll walk." So he'd decided to walk from an unfamiliar bar in an unfamiliar part of London while still very much feeling all the drinks he'd had with his teammates. 

Hence, now, he's lost. 

It's not an entirely different sensation for him, but usually it's more of a metaphorical thing than an actually physically lost thing, which has to count for something. 

To be honest, he's not sure who that whole "metaphorically vs. physically lost" thing is trying to curry favor with. He is sure, however, that currying favor makes him think of curry, and that a bowl of curry would really hit the spot right now. God, he's drunk. Where the hell is he? 

He looks up, squinting at a nearby street sign, trying to puzzle out what it says. Camberwell Grove, he thinks. That sounds familiar to him, for some reason. Why does that ...?

He turns, and suddenly, memories overwhelm him. Directly across the street is a plain, squat, frankly rather ugly block of flats. Number 5, Camberwell Grove. His eyes trace up, to the fourth floor, fifth window from the end. At this time of night, the window is dark, curtains pulled closed. They're gingham. _He never would have had gingham_ , Oliver thinks, numbly. Gingham is too frivolous. 

_"They're there to cover the windows, Oliver,"_ he would have said, giving him that Look that said _you're a moron but I love you regardless._ _"They're hardly a fashion statement."_

They'd always been closed whenever Oliver had been there, anyway. It was too dangerous to have the curtains open, even in a nondescript part of Muggle London. You never knew who might walk by at just the right - or wrong - time. His address hadn't been secret, but the company he'd kept had to be.

He remembers, vividly, stumbling into that flat, just as drunk as he is now, letting the door slam shut behind them, and pressing him up against the wall, kissing until they'd both been breathless and aching. The window swims out of focus, and it's almost a relief when movement catches his eye. Just down the street, a tall, thin figure stands in the pool of light from a streetlight, looking up at 5 Camberwell Grove as well. 

Oliver's heart stops in his chest. 

The other man is slim, dressed in a neatly tailored suit with no overcoat, despite the fact that it's early January in London. The streetlight makes his skin seem so pale it almost glows, and it catches in his red hair, turning the color even brighter. He doesn't move, doesn't shift, just stands perfectly still in the yellowish pool of light, looking up.  
It can't be. It _can't_ be. 

"Perce?" Oliver's voice cracks at the end. The figure turns, and the shock scares the drunk right out of him. The aquiline nose, those perfect, high cheekbones, the thin lips, and those impossibly, painfully blue eyes. They're just a little wide right now, a fraction of the shock Oliver feels, reflected back at him. 

"Perce," he repeats, taking a step forward. His mind might not feel drunk, but his body is still feeling the effects of it. He stumbles, and takes his eyes off the figure in the light for a split second. 

When he looks up, the man is gone, and the snow on the sidewalk is undisturbed. Frantic, he looks around, mind reeling. "Perce!" he calls, stumbling forward. " _Percy!_ "  
There's no answer, and Oliver stands there, heart pounding against his ribs like a frightened bird in a cage. His breath comes in shaking gulps, the cold air burning down his throat. He knows he can't have seen what he thinks he saw. It's not possible. 

Not even wizards have a way to bring back the dead.


	2. since the day i left you, i see your face in every crowd

"Oliver, I know what you think you saw, " Penelope says, setting a tray on the table and picking up the kettle, filling the two mugs with steaming tea. "I miss him, too. Especially this time of year. But it's just - you know it's impossible."

Oliver cradles his head in his hands, the hangover pounding behind his eyes. He knows the tea will do him good, but the idea of ingesting anything makes him want to throw up. 

"Drink up," she adds, nudging a mug towards him with the back of her hand. "Yours has hangover potion in it. You'll feel better."

Reluctantly, Oliver reaches for the mug and takes a tiny sip, thinking he'll humor her. If he doesn't feel like tea, he *really* won't feel up to the awful taste of hangover potion. But to his surprise, he can feel the potion starting to take effect, and the tea cuts the taste of the potion. He takes another sip, looking up at her. 

"I know that," he says. "I know it can't - it couldn't be. But Penny, it was _him._ I said his name, and he looked at me. It had to be."

Penelope glances away, taking a sip of her own tea. "Let's be reasonable about this," she says, all sense and perfect Ravenclaw logic. "You were drunk, it was snowing, and yesterday was the anniversary of his death. You were upset, you weren't thinking straight. Maybe you saw someone who looked like him. Maybe you were just seeing things."

Oliver shakes his head, but it's not entirely a 'no.' "I don't know. Maybe." In the morning light of Penelope's kitchen, hungover and sad, the incident has started to take on the surreal feel of a dream. He remembers the shock, the electric recognition that had literally scared him sober. He had been so sure then. 

"What were you doing there, anyway?" she asks. "That's not normally where you go with the team, is it?"

"No. Pierce wanted to try out this new pub he'd read about. It ... " Oliver grins sheepishly. "Actually, it wasn't anywhere near, either. I just got really lost. I don't know how I got there." A thought strikes him, and he frowns, considering it. "Penny, d'you think it was his ghost?"

"I don't know, it's been three years," she points out. "Surely it would have shown up before now." She doesn't dismiss it entirely, and a moment later: "What did it look like? I mean - spectral?"

"It looked just like him. He was even wearing a suit." Dark grey three-piece, white shirt, pale blue tie. The same suit he'd worn the last time Oliver had ever seen him. "But he wasn't translucent like a ghost. He was solid. He cast a shadow." Hadn't he? Oliver thinks back. Had the shadow he'd seen been cast by the stranger or by him? More and more of the details are slipping away, clouded by distance and more than reasonable doubt. 

"Like Peeves?" Penelope asks, a smile below her voice. 

"Shut up," Oliver retorts, and she smiles at him, reaching across the table to rest her hand on top of his.

"I'm sure you saw something, Ollie," she says, her voice warm and reassuring. "Did you take Divination past fourth year?"

"Nah. Didn't see the point." He twines his fingers with hers, her thin fingers a stark contrast to his broad ones. 

"In sixth year, we learned about imprints. Well - 'learned.' Professor Trelawney mentioned them once and I looked it up later. Anyway, imprints are what Muggles call ghosts. They're like a memory of a person, and they show up in places that were important to that person. Like that flat. It was important to him."

Oliver meets Penelope's eyes, and he knows they're thinking the same thing. 

It was the flat where he died.


	3. if i cry any more my tears will wash me away

Time, as it does, passes. 

Oliver never entirely forgets about the ghostly vision in front of Percy's apartment, but the times he thinks about it grow further and further apart. As the winter fades into spring, Quidditch season picks up again, and his time is consumed by practices,matches ... and going out and drinking too much with his teammates. He and Penelope owl or Floo at least once a week, but they're not talking so much about their feelings as they are making arrangements to meet. Penelope is busy, too: St. Mungo's is the hospital that never sleeps, and she has to cancel any number of assignations because six wizards have been diagnosed with the same dangerous strain of some magical disease. 

Whenever the memory does crop up, Oliver tries to dismiss it. Penelope was right, of course: he'd been drunk, he was upset, he'd probably only seen what he wanted to - and on the off-chance that he actually _had_ seen something, it likely had been an imprint or a shade. It hadn't been him. It never would be him again. 

"Percy's birthday is tomorrow," Penelope says, sitting cross-legged in front of her fire. Oliver's head sits amongst the sparking green flames, eyes going a bit sad at the reminder. "I thought I'd go visit his grave after work. Do you want to come?"

Oliver shakes his head. "I can't. Night game against the Arrows."

"They'll ruin you," she teases. 

"You know, it's been three years," he replies with a laugh. "A little support would be nice."

"Sorry, three years can't supersede a lifetime of supporting Appleby. I can't not see Puddlemere as the enemy."

His head shifts in the fire, and she can imagine him clutching at his chest in mock despair. "Ouch, my pride."

She smiles. "What time will you be back?"

A shrug that she can't see so much as sense. "Dunno yet. Why?"

"I might be there when you're back," she replies, and the curl to her smile backs up the hint of naughtiness in her voice. 

Oliver looks interested. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks. When do you get off work again?"

The next evening, it's just past sunset when Penelope appears just outside of the tiny graveyard near Ottery St. Catchpole. She takes in a deep breath and squares her shoulders, tossing her hair back. Even now, three years later, it still hurts to step in here, because she knows what she's going to see in the northwest corner, where the newer graves are. Two headstones, with neat flower arrangements on the carefully maintained grass, marking the final resting places of two people who are clearly still well-loved. 

The late August air is pleasantly warm, but a cool breeze flutters the branches of the trees surrounding the graveyard. There's a quiet rustling sound, and though she knows it's just the wind, she still glances over her shoulder. Suddenly, she is reminded of Oliver's story: the darkened flat, the ghostly figure looking up, light glinting through bright hair. Of course she believes in ghosts: she can't not, not after all the time she's spent in the wizarding world. But she wonders about ghosts like Muggles believe in, who are more like memories than ghosts, who haunt places that were important to them, who might show up at their old flat ... or their grave.

She looks forward, and there's a frisson down her spine that she's not sure is disappointment or relief when she sees the gravesite ahead is empty. A few final, halting steps forward take her to it. She hasn't brought anything for Fred, and she feels a pang of guilt - but it's not his birthday, she consoles herself. Instead, her eyes go to the other headstone:

PERCY IGNATIUS WEASLEY  
AUGUST 22, 1976 - JANUARY 13, 1998  
AD ASTRA

Unbidden, tears spring to Penelope's eyes, and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth to stem them before she can lose control. Another deep breath, and she sets the small bouquet of flowers she's brought with the others. It looks like she wasn't the only one to visit today: there's an arrangement tagged "Mum and Dad," one signed "Ginny," and one that doesn't have a label.

"Happy birthday, Percy," she whispers, her voice choked, just barely audible. "You're twenty-five today. Mad, isn't it? Remember what we said when we were in Hogwarts? We said you'd be well on your way to being Minister, and I'd be curing diseases and helping people until they'd have no choice but to name a wing of Mungo's after me. And we'd be planning on having kids, and - " Her voice cracks, and she presses her hands to her face, tears tracing hot tracks down her cheeks. It's been - Merlin, nearly ten years now, and she can still hear his voice, filled with teenage enthusiasm and optimism. _"I think two, don't you, Penny? Not quite as many as I grew up with. Two girls, maybe."_

"And we'd name one after your mum, and one after mine," she finishes, her words catching on a sob. "I miss you every day, Percy. I miss you so much. I wish - " She reaches out and touches his name, scratched into the smooth, flat surface of the granite. "I wish I could see you again." 

Finally, she gets to her feet, catching her balance on the edge of his headstone. "I'll bring Oliver," she says to it. "He'll want to wish you well, too." She gives it a watery smile before turning away. Her eyes land on the gate leading out of the cemetery, and she staggers back like she's been dealt a physical blow. Standing there, picked out in the moonlight, is a figure she thought she'd never see again. Tall and thin, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, moonlight shining through his bright hair ... His face is shadowed, but she doesn't need to see his face. Even so, she takes a step forward, and the shadows drop away enough to reveal his face. There, almost exactly as she remembers, are the high cheekbones, the thin lips (parted in surprise), and those brilliantly beautiful blue eyes ... but where are, she wonders, his glasses?

"Percy?" she breathes, staring at him like she can't believe her eyes. "Is that ...?"

"Penny," he says, and his voice is exactly like she remembers, too, quiet even in his apparent shock, with the RP accent he'd trained so hard to perfect evident even in that one word. His face and form go blurry as Penelope's eyes swim with tears, and she takes another step forward. She blinks hard to clear her vision, and when she focuses on the spot again, the specter is gone. 

"Percy?" she calls to the empty night. "Percy, come back, please, I just -"

Her words are lost as tears overwhelm her again, sobbing for what she'd lost - and, even only if for a moment, what she thought she had found.


	4. never thought that the cracks would begin to show

When Oliver returns to his flat that night, he finds Penelope on his couch, as planned - but not likely in the way that either of them had expected. 

She looks up at him with teary, swollen eyes, scrubbing at them with her sleeve. Immediately, he rushes to her side, putting his arms around her and pulling her close to him. 

"What happened?" he asks, concern coloring his voice. "What's wrong?"

"He was there, Ollie," Penelope sobs into his shoulder, her voice thick and shaking. "At the cemetery. I was at his grave, and I turned, and - and he was there."

"Are you sure?" Oliver asks, and there's no malice in his tone. He remembers this all too well: the rising hope, the shock, the sick realization that it can't have been real, and he wants to cushion Penelope from as much of it as he can. 

Penelope nods, pulling back and wiping her eyes again. "He said my name."

It's like a punch to the gut. "He _what_?"

"He said my name," she repeats. "I said, 'Percy, is that you?' and he said, 'Penny.'"

For a single, hurt moment, Oliver wonders why he didn't warrant speech. He shakes off the thought quickly, trying to prioritize logic over emotion. 

"What did he look like?" If it's the same phenomenon that he experienced outside of Percy's old flat, then he wants to establish as many details as they can now, before Penelope starts to forget, before she can question herself.

"He looked the same as he did the last time I saw him," she replies. "It was hard to tell the color of his suit, because it was so dark. I think it was black. But - " And here she pauses, dark brows furrowing, a little wrinkle appearing between them. "He wasn't wearing his glasses. If he were a spirit, wouldn't he still be wearing them?"

Oliver thinks back. He's almost certain the figure he'd seen had been wearing gray, but ... the glasses? He hadn't even noticed. Leave it to the Ravenclaw to notice something like that. 

"I guess so," he says uncertainly. "I don't know if your vision gets better, you know, then."

"I don't think it does," Penelope says. She's twisting her hair round her finger, first this way, then that, apparently not even noticing. "Because that's the thing about being a ghost. Remember Sir Nicholas?"

"Sir Nich - d'you mean Nearly Headless Nick?"

"Precisely. He's _nearly_ headless for all eternity. If ghosts could change their physicality, he'd be the first in line, wouldn't he? He'd want to just get his head off the whole way. But he died nearly headless, and nothing can change that."

"So what are you saying?" Oliver asks, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach. 

"It doesn't make any sense," Penelope answers, looking up at him, "but I don’t think Percy’s dead."


	5. see the lights through the rain but they never change

The problem with that sort of assertion, of course, is that you feel a bit mental even making it, much less going about proving it. What did they have? Two sightings, on significant nights, in significant places, with a figure that had been wearing similar clothes and had reacted in a similar way both times. They had seen him, he'd looked surprised, and as they'd come closer, he'd vanished. It ought to have been a ghost. Penelope, though, was stuck on the missing glasses and his speaking her name.

("There wasn't a body, after all," she points out one day, stirring her tea. 

"That we know of," Oliver returns. "Charlie told me his flat was a mess. Mr. Weasley was the one who had to gather his belongings after, and he said it was a disaster area. Maybe he wasn't ... you know ..." He doesn't clarify and just trails off, looking ill.)

But nothing really comes of it, and there's only so much research a person can do on such an insubstantial subject before they start running into walls. Even Penelope, with her prodigious Ravenclaw intellect, can't find anything about spirits that talk and appear solid, but aren't poltergeists. 

("They're either translucent like the ones at Hogwarts and properly ghosts, or they're poltergeists like Peeves. There's no evidence for any sort of middle ground.")

But if he is alive, the question shifts into bleaker, more uncomfortable territory. Why would he be in hiding? Was he on the run? From whom? What could he have done that would merit a false death and three years of silence? Why would he put his family and friends through all this pain? And if he was in hiding, why was he showing up in London and Ottery St. Catchpole? It's absolutely counterintuitive. Surely if you're on the lam, the last place you'd go is where the people who loved you most would be. 

"This is highly irregular," says the Minister for Magic's current assistant, a striking Indian girl named Ellora Worth. Though she and Penelope were friends at Hogwarts and remained in touch after graduation, Penelope can understand her unease. She turns the corner, leading to a stairwell leading down. "People who aren't Ministry employees are never allowed down here."

Oliver clutches the parchment from Minister Shacklebolt, ready to brandish it at a moment's notice. 

"But the minister did say, so I suppose an exception has been made." Ellora presses the tip of her wand to a door and begins to draw a complicated sigil on its surface. The fiery lines hang on the wood for a moment, then vanish into it. Nothing happens immediately, then there's a quiet click of the door unlocking. She reaches down and opens the door, gesturing for them to go in. "I'll be out here. Remember, Minister Shacklebolt said ten minutes. Any longer, and I'll be in to rout you out."

"We won't be long," Penelope promises, and they go in. 

Oliver looks up, and his breath catches. The room where the Ministry keeps its personnel files is five stories tall at least, and it stretches on as far as he can see on either side. The walls are lined with shelves, and each one is crammed full of manila folders. 

"Might need more than ten minutes," he says. "Does the Ministry throw anything away?"

"That ought to be self-evident," Penelope replies. She slides her wand out and holds it in front of her. " _Accio_ Percy Weasley's file!" Within seconds, one of the folders drops into her hands. 

"I can't believe that worked," Oliver says, taking it from her. The name "WEASLEY, PERCY I." is written along the top, and the front is crossed with a large red stamp that reads "DECEASED."

"Me, too." Penelope checks her watch. "Nine minutes. Let's get started."

The file lists absolutely nothing interesting. First is his CV, then annual evaluations, a write-up of the inquiry he'd faced after the Triwizard Tournament, a notice of promotion to Minister Fudge's junior assistant, commendations, and finally, a clipping from the Prophet that details his death, followed by his obituary. Penelope touches the picture with it, then shakes her head, closing the folder. 

"There's nothing. He's got a clean record."

"I don't know what we were expecting to find, anyway," Oliver admits. "Like a marriage document for his secret wife?"

Penelope laughs, but there's not a lot of actual humor behind it. "Come on. We can tell Ellora we're done here."

"Wait, hang on." Something catches Oliver's eye, and he runs his finger along the edge of the folder. The tip of it catches, and he works it further in to reveal a hidden pocket - and a whole lot more paper tucked inside. Penelope sucks in a breath and pulls the sheaf of paper out gently, fanning them out on the table. Each page is covered in Percy's neat, small handwriting, and Penelope leans in to examine the top page more closely. 

"What is it?" Oliver asks softly.

"It's a report," she answers. "See, here; it's the times when the Minister is alone. Why would he write about that?" Pulled into the papers, Penelope turns to the next one, brows pulling together. 

A brief glimpse of movement makes Oliver gently push the papers aside, pulling out the very bottom page. He starts as Percy Weasley stares back at him, shifting a little like his shoulders hurt, then glancing aside as though something just outside the white border of the photo has caught his attention. The photo is clipped to a piece of paper titled WEASLEY, PERCY I. Stamped across it, in bright red ink, is a single word: TERMINATED. But it's not the movement of the photo at the top that had made him notice it - there are more pictures clipped to the side. 

"Penny?" he says. "Come look at this."

Penelope sets her paper down and leans over. "It's a dossier," she remarks, then gasps in realization. "These are from when You-Know-Who was in charge!"

They look at each other for a moment, significance settling in, then go back to the paper. Silently, they read of Percy's suspected association with the Order of the Phoenix, his status in a known blood traitor family (estranged), his last location, and his known associates. There are some names Oliver doesn't recognize, then Penelope Clearwater, Oliver Wood, and Unknown (Possibly Muggle) Female. It's these last three that have pictures attached: Penelope as she walks out of St. Mungo's, Oliver with his broom over his shoulder going into practice, and a strange woman waiting outside of a building. Oliver looks at the last one for a long time, trying to recognize the Unknown Female. She's about their age, with chestnut-colored hair and very pale skin. Her outfit is nondescript - jeans, a long black coat, and tall black boots. The most striking thing about her photo is nothing physical about her, but how she acts in it. Penelope and Oliver are totally unaware of the cameras in their cases, but the Unknown Female stares straight at it, her lips curled in a slight smile. She stands very still, and the only indication that it's a wizarding photograph is the snow falling around her. 

"Who is she?" Penelope whispers.

"Maybe it's his secret wife after all," Oliver murmurs. It's still meant to be a joke, but staring at this beautiful girl with her piercing gaze, it doesn't feel funny at all. 

A knock startles them out of their reverie. "Two minutes," Ellora calls. 

"Right," Penelope says, suddenly all business. "I need copies of these. You take these and I'll take these." 

They work quickly, making duplicates of the hidden papers, and Oliver doesn't have reason to question the legality of their actions until Penelope carefully tucks them into her purse so that they don't show. 

"Is this allowed?" Oliver asks dubiously.

"I'm not telling anyone," Penelope replies primly. She has Oliver hold the hidden pocket open so she can tuck the papers back inside, and the pocket seals as soon as he pinches it closed. 

"Ellora, we're done," Penelope calls, zipping her purse closed and slinging it onto her shoulder. The door swings open, and Ellora checks her watch. 

"Thirty seconds left," she reports. "Did you find anything good?"

Oliver glances at Penelope, deciding to let her do the talking. She shrugs, her face a perfect portrait of mild frustration. 

"Not really. I guess not a lot happened to him while he was here."

Ellora shakes her head as she leads them out. "About as much as happened to the rest of us."

"I'm going to read these and see what I can find out," Penelope reports once they're on the sidewalk just outside the Ministry. "I'll let you know if I figure anything out."

The next day, there's an owl waiting for Oliver when he gets home from practice. It hoots at him as he unties the letter from its leg, and takes off. He unfolds the letter quickly, eager to see what Penelope had discovered. 

It's just one line, but it's enough to make Oliver sit down hard, unable to believe his eyes. 

_He was spying on the Ministry for the Order, and they killed him for it._

The next day, Oliver meets Penelope at home after work. He'd been an absolute mess at practice, unable to concentrate on anything except the revelation rattling around in his skull. Pierce had given him hell for his inattention and Oliver does regret his subpar performance. They're playing the Ballycastle Bats next week, and a distracted Keeper can be a serious liability. He feels like a giant ball of anxiety and nerves when he knocks on Penelope's door that evening, and she looks pale and worried when she lets him in. 

"Is it true?" he asks, caught somewhere between disbelief and shock. 

She nods, pushing the door shut behind him. "All of those papers we found - they were about the inner workings of the Ministry for an outsider. See - " She points to one of the papers spread across the top of her dining room table. Oliver picks it up and reads it, realizing with a jolt that it's an incredibly detailed listing of every entrance and exit in the Ministry - some of them marked with an asterisk with a note that simply reads "not commonly known."

"Merlin's pants," he murmurs. "I can't believe it."

"I couldn't either," Penelope says, "but there's no other explanation. The only thing I couldn't figure is her." She points to the picture of the Unknown Female, her gaze steady through the snow falling around her. "She's not a witch, so she couldn't have been a member of the Order. But she doesn't ... feel like a Muggle. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah." He stares down at the photo, unsure of what to make of this beautiful woman with her self-assured smile. Penelope's right - she doesn't act like a witch, but she's no Muggle, either. He wishes he could put his finger on what, precisely, it is about her - and his sneaking suspicion that she's the linchpin holding the whole thing together.


	6. you know that she came to break your heart

"Are you doing anything for Halloween?" Oliver asks, though his voice is rather necessarily muffled by Penelope's neck. 

"Maybe, hadn't given it much thought yet," Penelope replies, her voice a little slower and softer than usual. "Why?"

"Pierce is having a party for the team. I thought you might like to come with me."

"Like as your date?" Penelope manages to sound bewildered and amused at the same time. 

"Well - yeah, maybe, I guess." Oliver clears his throat. "Or as friends. Or not at all. Whatever."

"I'll think about it." Her tone is light and teasing, but there's a fond quirk to her smile.

Oliver huffs, rolling over on top of her, leaning down to brush his mouth over hers. "I'll give you something to think about," he murmurs, or he might, because he's speaking directly into her mouth. 

A rapid tapping on the window behind interrupts, but Penelope tightens her grip on him. 

"Ignore it," she implores, her leg hooking around his waist. 

"Can't," he says, clearly reluctant as he pulls away, sitting back. "Might be important." He opens the window and a medium-sized grey owl hops in. It has a letter in its talons and a Diagon Alley wing tag. As soon as Oliver pulls the letter free, the owl takes off again. With a confused frown, Oliver sits on the edge of the bed and slides his finger under the envelope, breaking the seal. He removes a letter, and something else flutters out. He reaches for it, and his face suddenly goes very white and still.

"Ollie?" Penelope asks. "Is everything okay?"

Instead of answering her, he holds the thing out, his hand trembling. She takes it, and cold suddenly covers her head and drips down her spine. 

The picture itself is nothing amazing: a square with a fountain, surrounded by streetlights. Penelope thinks it's in Paris - it looks Parisian, from what she recalls from her holiday there. The date in the corner is from September, only about three weeks prior. It's a wizarding photograph, naturally, and the fountain is flowing, the people in the square passing by and chatting with each other. 

None of that is what catches Penelope's eye. What does is the figure standing near the back. His utter stillness draws the eye irresistibly, making him the most noticeable thing about it. He's tall, thin, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that contrasts sharply with his pale skin and red hair. He’s looking away, but Penelope is willing to bet that the eyes are bright blue. 

"Oh, my God," she whispers, barely able to get the words past the lump in her throat. "How...?"

"There's a note," Oliver says, the words tumbling over each other as though desperate to get out. He unfolds it, and his eyes widen slightly. "It's from Gemma."

"Gemma Farley?" Penelope asks, leaning over to stare at it, still unable to believe her eyes.

"Yeah." He clears his throat and, voice shaking, begins to read.

_Oliver,  
I feel like it's been forever since we chatted - hope all is well with you and the Quidditch. I took these pictures when I was on hol in Paris with Gabriel last month, and didn't notice anything odd until I had them developed yesterday. I know you're seeing Penny Clearwater; could you ask her to have a look at these? I can't believe them - maybe I'm seeing things, and it's not really him? Gabriel said it looked like Percy too, but we were both there at the memorial. It can't be him. I've got more pictures if you and Penny want to see them. Give her my best. I'll talk to you soon._

_Gemma xx_

Penelope and Oliver look at each other for a long moment. Oliver looks like he's been kicked in the stomach, his hazel eyes rimmed with unshed tears. 

"Penny - " he says, and his voice breaks. Penelope puts her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder, and together, they stare at the picture - and the thousand more questions it raises.


	7. i know it's too late to stop the setting sun

It takes a few more notes via owl, but they arrange to meet with Gemma two weeks later, at the Leaky Cauldron. 

Oliver waits outside, shifting from foot to foot, then checks his watch. Although he's certain it's been at least five minutes since he last checked it, the minute hand has only moved one dash. He crosses his arms over his chest, and looks up and down the street again. There is a sudden disruption of pigeons a bit further down the road, and Penelope emerges from the alley, smoothing a hand over her dark curls, trying to get them back into some semblance of order. 

"Any sign of her?" she says when she's closer. Oliver shakes his head.

"It's still ten minutes, though. She'll probably be here soon." He gets the door for her, and they go in. Penelope finds a quiet table in the corner while Oliver gets a tea for her and an ale for himself, but the drinks sit nearly untouched. Instead, they watch the door, silent and anxious. 

Of course, when the door finally does open on Gemma Farley, there's no mistaking it. She sweeps in, emerald green trenchcoat flowing around her, sky-high heels clicking like a warning against the hard stone floor. When she spots Oliver and Penelope, her face lights and she hurries over, hugging them as they rise to greet her. 

"Thank you for meeting me," she says, taking a seat across from them and shrugging the trenchcoat off, revealing a black pencil skirt and dark purple silk blouse. When she moves, the onyxes in her necklace and earrings catch the candlelight. Setting her dragonskin bag on the table, she snaps it open and reaches in, pulling an envelope out. 

"Like I said," she says, and there's an uncertain note in her voice, a tremor caught between fear and disbelief, "we were on hol in Paris, and I didn't see anything odd until later. Maybe you can make something of it, Penny." She holds the envelope out.

When Penelope takes it, her hand is shaking. It takes her a moment, but she works it open, spilling out more pictures. All of them are from about the same time as the first one, though the people are different. One thing that they all have in common, of course, is the tall, slim figure in the background, statue-still. In the final picture, he stares directly at the camera, and his bright blue eyes are unmistakable. A moment later, he's gone. 

Oliver can't look at them for long - if he tries, he feels sick, and scared, and mad, and like his heart is breaking. Penelope keeps looking, somehow, examining each one with a careful thoroughness.

"Gemma, where were these taken?"

Gemma names an intersection, then asks, "Why?"

Penelope shakes her head absently. "I spent some time in Paris. I thought this looked familiar."

"Why did you contact us?" Oliver asks, looking at her so he doesn't have to look at the pictures. 

Gemma frowns slightly, her eyes going a bit distant. "I thought I was going mad," she replies finally. "Taking photos of a dead man, I mean. I didn't know who else to go to. I couldn't well talk to his parents, or Bill or Charlie, you know? I couldn't be the one to hurt them like that. But I thought I could talk to you and Penny about it. See what you made of it."

Penelope examines them for a moment or two longer, then puts them back in the envelope, handing it back to Gemma.

"It looks like him," she says, "but you're right, that shouldn't be possible." A beat, and her lips purse as she considers her options. "Is there any way you could get those developed the Muggle way? So they don't move?"

Gemma looks mystified. "Why?"

Penelope's face is neutral, but Oliver sees a steady flame of determination behind her dark eyes. "I have an idea."


	8. no love, no light, no end in sight

The first weekend in Paris is fruitless. 

They find the plaza, exactly where Gemma said it would be, but they don't know where to go from there. Oliver suggests loitering around the fountain, but it's pretty immediately apparent that this is a dead end. It's impossible to watch every single person who comes through, even if they are only looking for redheaded men. By nightfall, Oliver is sore from sitting all day, and Penelope is annoyed because she ran out of books ages ago. 

"We need a better plan," Penelope decides once they're back in London. "That was awful."

The second time is much more successful. Penelope brings the pictures of Percy in her purse and they show them to the shopkeepers in the area. At a convenience store on the corner, they finally hit the jackpot. 

"Oh, yes, he's a love," the old woman who runs the store says, tapping the picture. "He always comes in to buy the paper. Sometimes brings his wife. She's very sweet. Likes her tabloids, she does."

"His wife?" Oliver echoes hollowly, feeling something cold creeping down his spine. Is that why Percy had felt the need to fake his own death and vanish from England? Because he's hiding a secret wife? 

"Lovely girl, she's got the prettiest eyes. Live just around the corner." She pauses, looks at them with sudden suspicion. "They're not in trouble?"

"Oh, no, no," Penelope hastens to assure her. "Not at all." She hooks her arm forcibly around Oliver's, giving the shopkeeper a sweet smile. "Thanks so much!" She hustles Oliver out before he can say another word, and as soon as they're out of sight, Oliver turns to Penelope. 

" _Wife_?" he repeats, barely able to comprehend what he's just heard. 

Penelope looks troubled, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "None of this adds up, Ollie. It looks like Percy, but it's not acting like he ever would. I mean, a secret wife? I thought he was, you know ... with you. Right before."

Oliver shakes his head. "No. We broke up the November before." He'll never forget it: the iron-grey sky and the rain slanting down hard as Percy had told him, in his most officious tone, that they simply couldn't keep seeing each other: they had to think about their futures, and his just didn't have time for a relationship. (At the time, Oliver had suspected the Ministry's interference, though no one had known they were together. Now, he wonders - what about this wife? Had she been involved? Had it been because of her?) 

"Well, come on," Penelope says, tugging at his arm. "She said it was just around the corner. Let's have a look." 

"Excuse me - you are looking for Percy Weasley?" 

Oliver turns, hand instinctively moving towards his wand, sheathed at the small of his back. Penelope grabs his wrist, and though she's smiling, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. 

"I'm sorry?" she says.

The speaker, a tall, beautiful blonde woman, dips her head slightly. When she looks up and the streetlight catches her eyes, they shimmer a rich, gem-like blue. Oliver is suddenly put in mind of the Unknown Female. "I apologize. I overheard you say his name. I know his wife, Lydia." 

Lydia. Her name is Lydia. It makes her seem more human, less like a mystery. There's no doubt in his mind that this must be who the Unknown Female has been. Percy's secret wife, Lydia. 

He feels sick.

"Can you give us their address?" Penelope asks. "The shopkeeper said they weren't far, but I don't want to just knock on doors." 

"I can take you there," the woman offers. She smiles back, and it reads less as a smile than a predator baring her teeth. Penelope shrinks back, and Oliver moves in front of her.

"That's kind of you, but we don't want to take your time," Oliver says.

"Oh, nonsense," another voice says from behind them. "It's no bother."

Gripping Oliver's hand hard, Penelope turns to look. A brunette stands there, shorter and curvier than the other woman, with the same otherworldly beauty. She tilts her head, and the hunger in her dark eyes is unmistakable. 

"We are free tonight, right, Lourdes?"

"I have no other plans," the blonde - Lourdes - agrees. 

Oliver inhales. In the split second his eyes close in a blink, Lourdes is there, her eyes drilling into his. Everything in his brain is screaming to turn away, run, lash out, something something _something_ -

"Calm down," she coos.

He exhales, and his fear and anger go out with it. The rest of the world fades to grey. Nothing else matters, does it? No, this is it. The pressure on his hand lessens before vanishing completely. Something in the back of his head struggles, once, then goes still. 

"What's your name, handsome?" Lourdes asks. Her voice is soft, the slight French accent giving her words a gentle musicality.

"Oliver," he replies unthinkingly. She smiles, and he feels pride that he made her happy. 

"Follow me, Oliver," she says. "Your pretty friend, too. Antoinette?"

"Let's go," the other woman says. 

They set off, their human victims stumbling behind them, pulled as though by an invisible leash. 

Although the sidewalks are crowded, no one seems to notice the unnatural grace of the two women, or the blank, glazed looks on the faces of the man and woman following them. They walk for blocks, deeper into the labyrinthine streets of Paris, until Lourdes stops.

"Here," she says. She gestures to an alley well out of the glow of the streetlights, and when they go in, Penelope and Oliver follow.

"Which do you want?" Antoinette asks. Lourdes shrugs.

"It's all the same to me."

"I'll have him, then," the brunette says. When she smiles, her teeth show - especially the sharp points of her canines. She moves lightning-fast, pressing herself against Oliver, fingers pushing up into his dark blond hair, tilting his head to the side. Lourdes moves to Penelope, and she looks deeply into her eyes. The glaze vanishes, and Penelope opens her mouth to scream. Lourdes' hand is there in a second, stifling her, her fingers pressing hard enough into Penelope's cheek that it must be bruising. 

"Listen to me, Penelope." She nearly spits the name. "We are going to leave your desiccated corpses on her doorstep, to let your friend Lydia know that her guests aren't any more welcome here than she is.." 

Penelope tries to shake her head, her vision blurring with tears. 

With her other hand, Lourdes pushes some of Penelope's hair from her neck. Her cold fingers brush Penelope's skin, and she instinctively arches away from the touch. The blonde smiles, then she bares her fangs and buries them into Penelope's neck. At first, it hurts, it burns, she cries out and tries to push the other woman away -

\- but then it shifts, there's a gentle sucking sensation, and it melts into such pleasure, pleasure like she's never felt before. She moans, the hands pushing against Lourdes' shirt twisting into it instead, pulling her closer. Lourdes shifts closer to her, pressing her against the wall, and as the suction at her neck intensifies, so does the pleasure. Head spinning, overwhelmed, she moans again, a gasping breathless thing, shuddering against the cold, hard body.

"GET OFF OF HER!"

There is a loud, animalistic snarl, the sound of flesh smacking against flesh, and the pressure at Penelope's neck suddenly vanishes. The pleasure goes with it just as abruptly, and the pain hits her like a tidal wave. The side of her neck and the front of her shirt feel wet and sticky, and she's not sure if she's screaming for help or just screaming. Opening her eyes through a haze of pain, she sees Oliver slumped against the wall next to her, chin and shirt covered in blood. 

"Ollie," she gasps, reaching for his hand. Her fingers clasp at it but don’t quite grasp, and she can't coordinate a second attempt. Her knees give as she begins to swoon, but strong arms catch her in time.

"We need to get out of here." A woman's voice, quick and firm. 

"I know." The man's voice sounds familiar, and the arms scoop her into a bridal carry. Penelope blinks hard against the black encroaching on her vision, forcing herself to see her rescuer's face. Brilliant blue eyes stare back at her, the pale skin on one side marred by what look like claw marks that are already starting to knit closed.

"It's you," she says, or thinks she does, and everything goes black.


	9. i see it in your eyes, the suffering hides the blue

The silk sheets feel very nice against Oliver's bare skin. He lets out a low hum of approval, enjoying the feeling as he stretches, though a twinge of pain at his shoulder gives him pause. There's a familiar warmth next to him, and his arm brushes against Penelope's back as he settles back. 

Two things then occur to Oliver in rapid succession. 

One: that the last thing he remembers is bleeding in a back alley, and

Two: he's only wearing pajama trousers in someone else’s bed.

Startled, Oliver sits up, clutching at the sheets around his waist and wincing as the pain in his shoulder goes down his arm. He takes in their surroundings, trying to figure out where they are. It's a bedroom, unquestionably: tastefully decorated in blues and browns, a bookshelf here, dressers on either side of the room. The bed is large and the sheets are silk, and Penelope is curled up next to him. He can see lingering redness on her neck and shoulder, but nothing like what he should have seen, judging by the pain he remembers and the way she'd been screaming. 

The door opens, and Oliver starts, pulling the sheet closer to his waist again. Then he stares, and he completely loses the ability to speak. 

"I'm glad you're awake," says Percy Weasley, looking just as alive and well as Oliver, despite having died three years ago. 

His heart in his throat, Oliver just stares, unable to believe his eyes. It is, without question, Percy. He looks almost exactly as he had that night in January - pale skin, bright red hair, high cheekbones, and those painfully blue eyes. They seem even bluer now, somehow, almost like the sapphires in the Ravenclaw counter at Hogwarts. Just like the sapphires, too, Oliver can see flashes of purple and green in their depths. Tearing his eyes from Percy's, Oliver shakes his head, trying to clear it.

"This is impossible," he whispers, staring at him - the long, lean lines of his body hidden by a perfectly tailored black suit, pale hands stiller by his sides than Oliver ever remembers them being. Before he'd - before, his hands had always been a little restless, a giveaway of the anxiety that always stirred just beneath the poised, professional surface. Oliver recalls very well how he'd fuss with his cufflinks, his glasses, the hem of his shirt. But now they are still, relaxed, even though Oliver thinks that this, of any situation, is one to be anxious about. 

And then, like a flash flood, the shock washes away and rage sweeps in to replace it. 

"You bastard!" he shouts. "You let us think you were dead, and here you are, swanning about in bloody Paris like you haven't got a care in the world! D'you have any idea what this did to me and Penny? Or your mum, your whole family?"

Intent on grabbing Percy's thin shoulders and shaking some sense into him, Oliver swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands - and then a wave of dizziness overcomes him. He reels uncertainly, the room spinning around him, then sits down hard on the edge of the bed. 

"Careful," Percy says, and his hands - cold as ice - are suddenly on Oliver's shoulders, pressing him with a strength he doesn't remember the redhead having before. Too woozy to open his eyes, he stays right there, waiting for the vertigo to abate. "You and Penelope lost a lot of blood in that attack. You need to rest."

"Percy?" The voice comes from behind him now, and Oliver is dimly aware that Penelope is shifting by his side. "You're alive." It's not really a question, but her voice lilts up at the end regardless. 

Oliver opens his eyes and peers over his shoulder to see Penelope sitting up, her bright eyes examining him closely. He looks back to Percy in time to see a very uncomfortable look cross his face. 

"I - " he begins, then turns to the door a second before it opens. At the sight of the person framed in the doorway, Oliver sucks in a sharp breath and Penelope gasps.

"It's you," she says at the same time Oliver blurts out, "You're her!"

The new arrival looks at them like they are a single being with two heads, then turns to Percy.

"I heard shouting. Is everything all right?"

The picture, Oliver thinks, did not do the Unknown Female justice. In person, her beauty is breathtaking. Her skin is flawlessly pale and her eyes glint like emeralds. Standing next to Percy, her head tilted up to meet his gaze, she looks like the statue of a goddess made flesh.

"Everything is fine," Percy tells her. "Oliver was just - " His eyes flick, awkwardly, to the Quidditcher still sitting on the bed - "understandably upset by the circumstances."

"How are you alive?" Penelope asks, still quite stuck on that point. "We thought - we all did -"

"Let's begin with something easy," Percy says. He looks at the Unknown Female, then continues, "Oliver, Penelope, this is Lydia James, my - " He hesitates. 

"Your wife?" Oliver surmises. The bitterness in his voice startles even him. "The lady at the corner store already told us. Told us she ' loved her tabloids.'" 

"We're not married." Lydia's voice is soft but authoritative, putting an end to any argument along those lines. "I'm his maker."

"His what?" Penelope asks, but she doesn't sound like she's seeking an answer - more like she wants confirmation.

"My maker," Percy repeats. "I didn't fake my death that night."

"Then how the hell are you - " Oliver starts, but Penelope's hand on his shoulder stops him. 

"You're vampires." She shifts to sit next to Oliver, her gaze moving between them. "You really did die that night. And you ... changed him. Into something like you."

"You did say she was clever," Lydia says. Percy doesn't look particularly pleased, but he nods. 

"What?" Oliver says, feeling like the conversation is zooming all around and somehow completely avoiding him. "Vampires? But vampires don't - not like that -" He gestures wildly towards Percy and Lydia, not sure what he means, precisely.

"You need to rest," Percy says. Apparently his ability to translate Oliver's verbal flailing didn't die with him - or not die, as it stands now - or something like that. Oliver isn't sure. His head hurts and there's still a distinct swooping sensation just behind his eyes that's making him feel nauseated. "We can talk about this tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Penelope echoes. "Why not now?"

"You've both been attacked," Percy points out. "You lost a lot of blood, and you need to rest. When you've recuperated and had something to eat, then we can talk."

"Besides," Lydia says, her green eyes flickering to their guests, then up at Percy, "we have some errands to run." 

"You'll be safe here," Percy hurries to reassure them. "We'll be gone by the morning, but we'll be back by nightfall tomorrow. Get some sleep for now. There will be food for you when you wake up."

Although Oliver wants to stay awake and demand answers now, he also feels ill enough that the idea of sitting upright for another minute makes him think he'll probably throw up all over Percy's perfectly appointed bedroom. He looks back at Penelope, who nods.

"And we'll get answers to all of our questions tomorrow," she says, and it's not a question. 

Percy nods. "I promise."

Oliver lays down as the two vampires leave the room, and he's asleep again before his head hits the pillow.

He's not sure how much later it is when he smells a very strong scent of smoke. He opens his eyes - not a lot, since his head still hurts, but enough to see where the smell is coming from. He recognizes Percy's arm immediately, then realizes that the skin over it is blistered and red, and that he's wearing a leather jacket that's missing an arm. He's shrugging off the jacket, and talking too quietly for Oliver to understand the words. Lydia is there as well, peeling off her t-shirt, and the skin on her back is burned red. Oliver wonders why they smell of smoke, and he makes a mental note to ask them in the morning as the darkness claims him again.


	10. i can feel the darkness coming and I'm afraid of myself

The next time he wakes up, it's because Penelope is getting out of bed, setting tentative feet on the floor, taking in their surroundings with a sharp eye.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, voice still gravelly with sleep. 

"A little better," she replies. "I know I'll feel better once I eat something."

"Do you think they'll have anything to eat here?" Oliver asks, sitting up on his elbows. He doesn't remember too much about the section on vampires from Defense Against the Dark Arts sixth year (aside from the fact that Lockhart was full of crap, and spent more time talking about himself than any of the Dark creatures he'd supposedly fought), but he's fairly sure their diet doesn't include a full English fry-up. 

"I'm sure they must," Penelope replies absently. She's wandered over to the bookshelf and is examining the titles there, running her fingers over the spines. Oliver takes a moment to examine her in turn, then decides to take a crack at getting out of bed himself. With deliberate movements, he puts his feet down and stands up. He prepares for the swoop of disorientation, but it never comes. That's probably a good sign.

There's a piece of paper on the desk, and with precisely zero regard for their hosts' privacy, Oliver picks it up to read it. Luckily, it's addressed to them.

_Penelope and Oliver,_

_I hope you slept well and feel better this morning. Lydia and I tried to clean your clothes but they were in rather hopeless shape. We got you replacements - I hope they're acceptable. There is food in the kitchen. We'll be there after sunset, which is around 6:30. See you soon._

_P_

Oliver looks over and spots what must be the replacement clothes. He'll be the first to admit he doesn't know a whole lot about fashion, but something about the clothes looks _expensive_. He picks up the jeans carefully, examining them. There's a label on the waistband, but the name means nothing to him. Penelope appears beside him, picking up the dress left out next to it, and he hears her suck in a sharp breath. 

"Penny?"

"This is ... really expensive. It probably cost more than a month's rent on my flat." Her fingers skim the fabric very gently, as though she's afraid to touch it. 

"These, too?" He holds out the jeans for her inspection. She takes a look at the label and nods. 

"Not quite 'month's rent,' but close." She smiles, wanly. "I almost don't want to wear it. I feel like I need to wear it somewhere special."

"What, discovering your ex-boyfriend is only sort of dead isn't special enough?" The bitterness in Oliver's voice isn't too surprising, but the viciousness in it is unexpected. Penelope touches his shoulder gently, and he feels something trying to give inside. With a supreme effort, he sucks it all up and clutches a mental hand around it to hold it together. He won't break down in front of Penelope. 

"Ollie?"

"I'm okay. Sorry." He manages something akin to a smile. "Anyway, we're in Paris. That seems like a special occasion to me."

Penelope smiles and squeezes his shoulder, then picks up the dress.

"You're right about that. Why not?" 

Once they're dressed, they venture downstairs and find the kitchen. It is large and beautifully appointed ... and looks utterly untouched. There is, as Percy promised, food. It's not a lot. There's a frozen pizza and some TV dinners in the middle of the otherwise empty freezer, a six-pack of beer, a couple of bottles of water, and a jar of spaghetti sauce in the refrigerator, and three boxes of noodles in the cabinet. Penelope knows how to use the microwave and tells Oliver she'll see to it. She sets Oliver to finding the utensils and he finds a couple of shrink-wrapped sets of plastic ones. More than anything, it's that that reminds him that their hosts look human, but aren't. Oliver remembers that Percy's kitchen hadn't always had a lot in it (he'd eaten a lot of takeaway), but there'd always been glasses and flatware, because Percy had been eating and drinking and _alive_. 

The microwave beeps, shaking him out of his reverie. It's not much, and it's not particularly good, but it's food, and Oliver hadn't realized he was famished until the food hit his stomach. 

Just as they're finishing up, they hear the front door open. Though Oliver is listening closely, he doesn't hear footsteps, and he glances at Penelope, who's got her hand on her wand.

"Oliver? Penelope?" Percy suddenly appears in the doorway to the kitchen, and it's just as much of a shock as it had been the day before. He looks perfectly put together in a dark grey suit and green tie, hair carefully gelled, blue eyes so much more bright and vibrant than they had been before. 

Penelope gasps and her chair scrapes against the floor as she stands up, seemingly without really meaning to. She crosses the room until she's standing right in front of him, head tilted up, dark curls brushing against her back as she looks at him. Percy stands still, silently submitting to her examination. She reaches up to touch his cheek, the soft brown of her fingers standing out against his skin. It's as white as marble, and just as smooth and flawless. More than anything else, it's disconcerting to realize his freckles are gone. Oliver had loved those freckles and spent many hours exploring them, though Percy had always half-heartedly complained. To see them gone - like someone had taken a cloth and rubbed them away - just seems wrong.

"You're warm," Penelope says. 

He inclines his head in acknowledgement. "For now."

She draws back. "You've fed."

Oliver looks at Percy's face, sees the mix of emotions chasing each other there - sadness, resignation, despair, and underneath it all, something warm. He doesn't flatter himself that it's love anymore, but he feels a little better knowing there's something still there.

"Yes," he replies. "I fed."

"Are they dead?" she asks.

Percy shakes his head. "No. She'll be fine." Oliver feels an ugly flash of jealousy burn through him, and he glares at the leftovers of their dinner in lieu of taking it out on Percy - at least, not when Penelope is in earshot. 

"I'm sure you have questions," the redhead continues. "If you'd like to join us out in the living room, we'll be happy to answer them to the best of our ability."

Oliver and Penelope exchange glances, and Penelope nods slightly. Oliver wants answers, but he wants them on his terms, not the ones he's being offered. Still, he knows it's probably this or nothing at all. Scowling, he follows Penelope and Percy out into the living room.

It is as beautiful as the rest of the flat, decorated in dove grey, cream, and black. Lydia sits on the huge black leather couch, flipping through a magazine. Her beauty is even more breathtaking now, with that same faint flush in her cheeks, and her navy blue dress seems like it was made to set off her auburn curls and inhumanly green eyes. Percy waits as Penelope and Oliver choose their seats - the loveseat, not quite the furthest point they could pick from Lydia, but close. For a moment, Percy seems torn, not sure where to sit. He finally perches on the edge of the couch by Lydia, hands in his lap. It feels like a declaration. 

"Go ahead," Lydia says, setting the magazine down. "I can tell you're bursting."

"What the hell happened?" Oliver blurts out, his anger and heartbreak welling to the surface and fighting to get out all at once. "You fake your own death, you're spying on the Ministry - hiding, I don't even know, _her_ from all of us, now you're in _Paris_ and you say you're a vampire? Percy, I don't understand it!"

Percy's eyes are wide, and somehow, he seems to have grown paler. "How did you know?" 

Penelope opens her mouth as though to answer, but Oliver puts a prohibitive hand on her arm. His words grind out between his teeth. " _Him first_."

Percy nods slowly. His hands stay still in his lap, and the stillness seems so wrong. He should be tugging at the cuffs of his jacket, or fiddling with his glasses, or doing any of the thousand tiny things that he used to do, and it isn’t right to see him without them.

"You're right," he says. A moment, and he continues, "I was a spy for the Order. I worked for them the whole time I was at the Ministry, under Professor Dumbledore's orders. As for Lydia ..." He glances over at her, and she meets his gaze. There is a naked, almost raw desire in the way they look at each other, sharp-edged lust mixed with affection and something that might be resentment. It hurts to see them. "I met her in October 1997."

Oliver hears Penelope's sharp intake of realization, but he barely comprehends it. His lungs have collapsed, and the room must be spinning. October 1997. The month before they broke up - the month before Percy had dumped _him_. Because, he'd lied, of his career. But now it's so blindingly, stupidly obvious that it was because of _her_. He's aware of soft, warm pressure on his hand, and Penelope's voice.

"Ollie. Breathe." He opens his mouth and takes in a breath that shakes, one he can't quite force down his throat because it's thick with the tears that are trying to come out.

"You broke up with me because of her." 

Percy winces back like Oliver's accusation is a physical blow. 

"No." He's looking back at them now, his gem-like blue eyes pleading with them to understand. "I broke up with you because I knew my cover at the Ministry was in danger. If they had found me out and they had known about you - about us - they would have killed you, too." 

Penelope's hand tightens on Oliver's, and he suspects it's just that point of contact that's keeping him from breaking Percy's nose.

"I don't believe you," he spits. "All those late nights at work? I guess you were _working_ , all right."

Lydia holds up a hand. "Nothing happened until after he broke up with you. He wouldn't let it."

Percy looks down at his perfectly polished dress shoes, and what looks like a shadow of guilt crosses his face.

"Am I supposed to believe you?" Oliver demands. 

Lydia lifts a single shoulder in an elegant gesture of dismissal. "That doesn't really matter to me. It's the truth."

The world swims as the tears rise again, threatening to spill out. None of this is how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to find him, find out he was hiding because of some stupidly noble Gryffindor notion of protecting everyone else at his own expense, and bring him back to England for a big celebration. Now there's ... all of this. No matter what Lydia says, Oliver doesn't believe that _nothing_ happened before he and Percy broke up. Not with the way they look at each other, like it's only the thinnest veneer of propriety that's keeping them from going at it right here. Even if they didn't sleep together -

He is struck with the sudden mental image of Lydia burying her fangs in Percy's neck, his head tilted back, his hands clutching at her waist, her pale fingers twisted hard in his bright hair. The disgust doesn't surprise him, but the arousal inextricably twined within it _does_.

"What happened yesterday?" Penelope asks, thankfully distracting Oliver from this new and slightly worrying development. "Those women who met us outside the convenience store, that one, Lourdes - they did something to our heads, made us follow them." Her eyes shift between them. "She said she knew you."

Lydia answers. "There were some other vampires, ones that were here before Percy and I arrived, who were." A beat, as she looks for the right word. "Territorial about Paris. We've only been here for three years, and they never liked it. They were always looking for a way to drive us out."

"So when we showed up," Penelope continues, picking up the thread of logic easily, "asking for Percy, it was an opportunity to hurt you."

Lydia's lips curl slightly in approval. "Exactly."

"But how did you find us?" Penelope asks. She doesn't smile back. "We had no idea where we were. How could you?"

Lydia glances at Percy. He takes up the reins of the story, though it's with some hesitance.

"I could sense when you were in danger. It's one of the abilities I've - received." Another beat. "Vampires are able to pick up when someone they've been, ah. Intimate with. Is in the vicinity, and in immediate danger. I could pinpoint where you were. We came as quickly as we could."

Penelope's cheeks go a bit red at the mention of intimacy. Even though everyone in this room has at least one thing in common, it's still embarrassing to hear it spoken of so openly. 

"How did you find me?" Percy asks. "I thought we covered our tracks fairly well."

" _Covered your tracks_?" Oliver bursts out, unable to keep it in any longer. "Is that what you call breaking your mum's heart and letting the rest of us think you were dead? That's covering your tracks?!"

Abruptly, Percy stands up and goes to the window, staring out into the Paris nighttime. He doesn't seem inclined to answer the question immediately, which is unacceptable right now. Oliver stands up, too, crossing the room in three furious strides, grabbing the redhead's thin shoulder and pulling him so they're eye to eye.

" _I said_ \- " Oliver cuts off suddenly. Limning those startling blue eyes is a thin line of red, and when Percy blinks, two drops of water and blood roll down his cheeks, leaving faint trails of pink in their wake. Oliver draws back, repulsed. This - this, more than the empty kitchen, more than the missing freckles, more than the inhuman strength - _this_ is what puts the final nail in the coffin of Percy's humanity. A human being cries. No human being cries blood.

Looking aside, Percy pulls out his pocket square with a quick, precise movement, dabbing it to his eyes and his cheeks. At the point of contact on the white fabric, the blood is bright red, diluting to paler and paler pink as it spreads. Oliver doesn't want to look, but he finds himself taking a sick interest in the handkerchief, even as Percy neatly folds it back, tucking it into his pocket so the stained area is hidden away. He looks back at the redhead's face. The blue eyes are sad but clear and he doesn't show any of the usual traces of crying - no flushed cheeks, no redness around the eyes, no catching his breath. 

"If you think," he says, firmly, the ghost of his old sneering pomposity bolstering his words, "that I would have purposely chosen a path that ended in my mother's heartbreak, you don't know me at all."

"Right now," Oliver replies, "I wonder if I ever did."

For the moment, the rest of the room has faded away, and it's only them. Hazel glaring into blue, Percy's arms crossed in an old gesture of defense, Oliver's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the inches between them crackling with tension.

"You left me for her."

"You would have died if we'd stayed together."

"That's not what I said. You left me for her."

"I couldn't put you in that sort of danger; you would have been a huge amount of leverage for the Death Eaters - "

"YOU LEFT ME FOR HER!" 

"YOU-KNOW-WHO COULDN'T HURT HER!" 

Oliver draws back, fists clenched so tightly his nails are pressed into his palms. This is what he'd wanted; the confirmation he'd been digging and digging for. He'd won. Too bad winning still feels like losing.

The silence hangs there, threatening to grow bigger and bigger and swallow them all up. Then Penelope breaks it.

"You knew that we saw you, Percy, at your flat and at the graveyard."

"You went back to England?" Lydia stares at her fledgling in disbelief. "You weren't that stupid. It's only been three years!"

"I was homesick; I didn't think anyone would be there at that specific time," Percy protests.

"You didn't think, clearly," Lydia replies sharply. "When?" Her eyes go between Oliver and Penelope, clearly waiting for them to answer. 

"January 13 of this year," Oliver replies finally. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the straight line of Percy's shoulders slump slightly, and he feels satisfaction and guilt. 

"August 22," Penelope adds.

"The day you died and the day you were born, and you think the people who loved you aren't going to be at the places they can be near you?" Lydia shakes her head, then returns that bright gaze to Penelope. "How did you find out we were in Paris? Surely Percy didn't leave a matchbook."

"One of our friends from school contacted us," Penelope says. "She had pictures from down the street."

"Pictures?" Lydia cries at the same time as Percy gasps, "That was Gemma!"

"You knew about this?" Lydia demands. Though she sits still, she radiates rage from every inch of her body. Percy, on the other hand, has very human panic written across his face. Oliver wonders how much practice Lydia has had at this, to be able to express so much anger with so little movement.

"I thought it looked like Gemma, but I couldn't go and say hello to her, could I? I left as soon as I thought it might be her, but I didn't realize she had pictures." 

Though Percy's voice is raising and speeding up like he's on the verge of a panic attack, he's not clutching at his tie or breathing harder at all. In fact, his voice and face seem to be the only things panicking. Oliver still feels the urge to reach out and calm him down - but as he turns, he catches sight of the pale skin, unmarked by freckles, and he is suddenly, forcibly reminded that this is not the boy he once held and soothed in the throes of a panic attack. This is something much more dangerous. 

"Has anyone else seen these pictures?" Lydia asks.

Oliver looks at Penelope, and she glances back at him before returning her level gaze to Lydia. 

"I don't think so. Gemma may have shown them to other people, but I think she understood the value of what she had." 

It's a complete non-answer, and Oliver is impressed. Lydia seems less so, her lips pressing together into a thin line. 

"So you say." She stands, turning to Percy. Not eager to be anywhere near her, Oliver moves back to Penelope, and he reaches for her hand. She looks up at him and grabs his hand firmly. She's terrified, he realizes, and feels a flash of guilt for leaving her alone over here while he'd yelled at Percy. 

"When did that happen?" said vampire asks suddenly. They look over, and he's staring at their hands. He looks at their faces, and the jealousy and regret in his eyes is unmistakable. "Are you together?"

"We're seeing each other," Oliver replies, remembering Gemma's words from her note. That seems as good a way to describe their more-than-friends but not-quite-dating status. "It's been about three years."

Instead of answering, Percy turns back to the window. Good. Let it hurt when he does the math. Let him realize the hole he left in everyone's lives. 

"What happened that night?" Penelope asks, voicing the last question that's been haunting her for nearly a year now, since a drunk and shaken Oliver had shown up at her flat, half-hysterically babbling about ghosts. Oliver tries to swallow his anger, to stay calm for now, although it's getting harder and harder to contain. But he needs to know this, too.

"I can't - " Percy says, his voice breaking. He doesn't turn away from the window, but his shoulders hunch, and it's easy to imagine him wrapping his arms around himself in an all-too-mortal gesture of protection.

"I can." Lydia's hand stays on his arm, but she looks at Penelope and Oliver. "We had plans to meet up that night, and I knew something was wrong when he was late. Then I felt this - " She pauses here, her eyes shifting to the ceiling as though it will help her think. "This pain, like I haven't felt in years. That was when I knew he was in trouble."

This confirmation of their intimacy - that Lydia had been able to sense Percy's immediate danger as he'd been able to sense Oliver and Penelope's - is like a slap in the face. Penelope closes her eyes, and Oliver squeezes her hand. 

"I ran to his flat as quickly as I could. Two of those, those - "

"Death Eaters," Percy supplies quietly. 

"Death Eaters," Lydia picks up, "had broken in. I guess they realized what he'd been up to."

"Why didn't they just kill him?" Oliver asks. It's not until Penelope and Lydia pin him with nearly identical disapproving looks that he realizes how thoughtlessly cruel he sounds. "I mean, that's their usual plan of attack, isn't it?"

"They wanted information." As Percy speaks, he curls in on himself more tightly. "I suppose You-Know-Who wanted to know how much I had passed on to the Order. He wanted to keep me alive long enough to see how badly I had undermined him." 

Lydia presses her hand between his shoulderblades and rubs up and down in a slow, comforting motion. The look on her face is tender, maybe even loving. As she picks up the thread, she doesn't look away from him.

"I was in so much pain by the time I got there, I couldn't imagine how he was still alive. They were using this curse on him - I think they said _Crucio_?"

"The Cruciatus Curse?" Penelope gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth, and her dark eyes fill with tears. "Oh, Percy."

"He wasn't talking, though," Lydia continues, a note of fierce pride in her voice. "He told them he'd rather die than give them anything. That was when I made my presence known. I attacked one of them, and the other one, he used - what was it, _Diffindo_?"

"A Slicing Charm," Percy confirms. Penelope lets out a choked sob. It's a harmless spell when aimed at a piece of fabric, but at a person? 

"It hit his chest. He was so weak, he couldn't fight back. He couldn't even dodge." Lydia presses herself against him, her eyes closing for a moment, as though that will block out the memory. Even so, he's sprawled out across their minds' eyes, too weak to struggle, the crisp white front of his shirt stained bright red. Percy's arm curls around her waist, keeping her close.

"I killed one of them. The other one wasn’t in any state to keep going. And then I had a choice. Either I let him die ... or I made him like me."

Penelope notices that neither option is framed as 'saving' him. 

"I made my choice, and then I glamoured the other Death Eater into thinking a scuffle with Percy had been what killed his compatriot, but that he'd succeeded in killing Percy."

"But the Dark Mark," Oliver says, dumbfounded. 

"Lydia had him set it. Then we left."

They look at each other again, and there is so much pain and love and anger there, it seems like they ought to burst. 

Oliver feels the anger growing in him again, burning in his throat and chest, threatening to cut off his air. Every second he looks at Percy's back, the lines of his shoulders, his arm around her waist and her hand on his back, the way they look at each other, makes him angrier. They are a tableau of unnatural beauty and grace, and Oliver wants to break them. 

"We should go," Penelope says. "I don't think there's anything else to be learned here."

"Wait," says Lydia. Her brilliant eyes have switched to Penelope now. "You shouldn't. It's not safe."

"Why not?"

"We - " The most delicate pause. "Retaliated against the ones who hurt you. But we weren't able to complete the job."

Oliver suddenly remembers the night before, Percy's burned arm and Lydia's reddened back, and the stench of smoke that had hung around them. _Retaliated_. 

"I understand if you want to leave as soon as possible," Lydia continues, "but it would be in your best interest to wait until morning." She gestures up the stairs. "You're welcome to stay in our room again."

"Just for tonight," Penelope says.

"Of course." Lydia looks at Percy, and her fingers tighten on his arm. He turns, and Oliver isn't sure if he's disappointed or relieved he doesn't see the telltale red streaks of tears.

"Good night," he says politely. "I - " He pauses, clearly searching for the right word. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Oliver replies. Still holding Penelope's hand, they leave the room and start up the stairs. Oliver ignores the tightness in his throat and the burning in his eyes, ignores the raspy quality of his breath, ignores that his legs are shaking. He gets the door to the bedroom, gestures for Penelope to go in first, and closes it behind them.

It's then, and only then, that he lets his knees give out, and he collapses against the door, burying his face in his arms so Penelope doesn't see him cry. 

Of course she's not so oblivious, and she settles on the floor next to him, putting her arms around him and resting her head on his shoulder. He feels heat, then a splash of wetness on his shoulder, and he uncurls himself to gather Penelope in, too, making their unbearable burden just a little bit lighter. 

It's some time later - Oliver isn't entirely sure how much - and they're still sitting against the door, holding each other for dear life, when there's a knock at the door.

"Oliver? Penelope?" It's Percy's voice. Penelope looks up at the door, then at Oliver. They silently confer, and Penelope shakes her head. Oliver pulls her closer and they wait. Silence, then Percy begins speaking again.

"I'll understand if you don't want to see me again, but I had to let you know. We're not safe in Paris anymore. Between Gemma's pictures and the other vampires, if someone else tracks me down. .. I can't have what happened to you happening to someone else." Another pause. "When I saw you there, when I saw what they had done to you, because of me ... They didn't get nearly what they deserved."

He goes silent for a moment. "But I'd like to offer you this. Lydia and I want to show you around the city tomorrow night. You'll be safe with us. If you decide to leave tomorrow during the day, that's fine, and I understand. But I don't want the last time I see you to be so ... fraught. I'd like to make some good memories one last time." He pauses one last time, then adds softly, "Good night."

It's hard to tell when, precisely, he leaves. They haven't heard either of their hosts' footsteps since they've been here. When he is fairly sure they're alone, Oliver lets out a huge sigh that catches in his throat, and looks down at Penelope. Penelope's eyes are swimming with tears when she looks back at him, and then she buries her face in his shoulder. He wraps his arms more tightly around her, and outside, the city of Paris is waking up.


	11. her frozen hand takes your breath away

There wasn't any discussion about going. Not really. Both Oliver and Penelope had offered up the expected, though half-hearted, objections that they were vampires, who knew what they were really up to, but Penelope's burning curiosity and Oliver's ever-present need to see things through to the end meant that there wasn't ever really a chance they were leaving. Plus, the shock and joy that crashes across Percy's face when he sees them coming down the stairs is still enough to set Penelope's heart aflutter, even now.

"You stayed," he says, though his voice lilts up at the end. 

"You bought us new clothes," Penelope replies. Another absurdly expensive dress for her, and a hoodie and jeans for Oliver that cost more than he had ever spent on clothes in his life. She glances at Lydia, perched on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, today dressed in a dark burgundy sweater that brings out the red undertones in her hair. "You were expecting us to stay?"

"I was hoping," he replies. He's wearing the same outfit, or near enough, that Penelope saw him in at the graveyard - black suit, perfectly tailored, and a grey and blue striped tie. It sends a shiver up her spine. "Paris is beautiful in the fall. I'd hoped I would get a chance to show you around." He takes a step closer, as though to embrace her. Penelope instinctively steps back, and Percy seems to recall himself and steps away quickly. 

"Where are we going?" Oliver asks, and though the gathering is, in theory, a friendly one, there's still an edge to his voice. 

"Some places everyone ought to see when they come here," Lydia replies. She unfolds herself from the stool, and the high heels of her boots don't make a sound as they hit the floor. "The Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame - oh, and I thought we'd finish the night at this club that stays open until nearly dawn. It's in a building that's hundreds of years old." 

"You go to clubs?" Penelope asks Percy in disbelief. 

"It's her idea of a good time," he replies, though he looks a bit uncomfortable. 

They head out of the flat, and Penelope realizes they are actually on the square from Gemma's pictures - there, directly ahead of them, is the bench where she and Oliver spent all day. She turns and looks at the building behind them - an unassuming two-story of grey brick, completely undistinguished from the others. The name on the mailbox by the door reads "James." There's no way we would have found him under normal circumstances, she thinks, and she also thinks maybe that wouldn't have been a bad thing. 

"How do - your type travel?" Oliver asks. He's eyeing Lydia distrustfully, as though he expects her to grab him and swoop him off at any moment.

"By cab is easiest," she responds, and puts her hand out to flag one down. When one stops for them, she requests " _Cathédrale Notre-Dame, si vous plait_ ," and gestures for them to get in. There's a moment of uncomfortable silence before Penelope, Oliver, and Percy get in the back, Penelope awkwardly sandwiched in the middle, hands so tight in her lap that her knuckles are white. Lydia gets in the front seat and, quite at her ease, begins chatting with the driver in French. The three in the back don't speak as the ride begins, though Percy does try to break the awkwardness, pointing out sights through the window. Each attempt falls flat, and eventually, he stops trying.

They arrive at Notre Dame in silence, which persists as Lydia pays the cabbie, thanking him sweetly, and then joins them, hooking her arm through Percy's. 

"Shall we begin?"

It's a whirlwind night. Although it's past the closing time of the most famous sights in Paris, Lydia always seems to know someone who has a key, and in those places where she doesn't, it only seems to take a flash of her smile and judicious application of those big green eyes before the doors just open. They see Notre Dame, ride the inclinator all the way to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and go along the Champs-Elysées, stopping under the Arc de Triomphe so Oliver and Penelope can appreciate the view.

It's hard to remember that their hosts aren't human, right now. Lydia's enthusiasm for the architecture and history of the city makes her practically glow, gesturing to bring their attention to this flourish that's the signature of this architect, or this particular style of brickwork that indicates the general time it was built. She never touches them, of course, but it only seems to take a movement of those long, pale fingers to get everyone's attention. 

Percy, too, shows a surprising knowledge of the city - although, Oliver supposes bitterly, it's not like he's had much else to do in the last three years, is it? It's not like he was working or ordering Thai takeaway or spending time with the people who loved him. 

The anger bubbles up again, and he catches a glimpse of Percy's flawless, unfreckled profile, and he swears there's red at the edges of his vision.

"Ollie?" Penelope's voice. Oliver forces himself out of his own head. "Is that okay?"

"Is what okay?" he asks, belatedly realizing there had been a conversation happening while he'd been stewing. 

"We'll see this club, then go back, then we'll leave tomorrow. Is that okay?"

"What's the club like?" Oliver asks suspiciously. Although he'd grudgingly admit that Lydia and Percy have been quite ideal hosts, he still doesn't trust them as far as he could throw them. Neither of them have tried anything, but Lydia had freely admitted to killing - killing a Death Eater, of course, but still - and this Percy who'd purposely vanished and left his family to mourn an empty grave wasn't the same boy he and Penelope had both loved. Who knew what other lies and viciousness they were capable of?

"It's perfectly safe," Percy says. "It styles itself a vampire bar, but its real clientele are teenagers with lots of silver jewelry and a predilection for black lace." Penelope doesn't miss the slight curl to his lip, and she can guess why he's not its biggest fan. In addition to the loud music and lack of personal space, she suspects he'd stick out like a sore thumb in his suit and silk tie. 

"There's rules as well," Lydia adds. "Should any actual vampires patronize it, they have to follow a very strict set of rules."

"Do those actually work?" Penelope asks, surprised.

Percy nods. "It's very important for us - our kind, I mean - to stay inconspicuous. Rules are absolutely necessary."

At least that hasn't changed, Oliver thinks.


	12. my heart is empty and only you can tempt me

The club looks precisely the way it ought to with the way Lydia described the clientele. The sign features several stylized bats and the words "La Danse Morts" carved in foot-high Gothic script. If Penelope doesn't miss her guess, it looks like it might have even been a church at some point in its history. 

Although there's quite a line to get in, all it takes is a smile and a wave before the bouncer at the door is unhooking the velvet rope for them and waving them through. There's grumbling, of course, but some of the clubbers near the front of the line seem to think that the four of them are celebrities. They're pointing and talking in rapid-fire French as the door to the club swings shut behind them.

"They think you're a pop star," Percy tells Penelope once they're inside. "They were also trying to figure out if Oliver played American football or rugby."

"What about you?" Penelope asks. 

"Italian film stars," Percy replies. "It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, either."

Although Lydia offers to get drinks, Oliver absolutely refuses to have any alcohol, and it's clear he won't be budged on the point. Instead, he tells their hosts they'll stay on the side for a bit and get used to the feel of the club. Lydia seizes Percy's hand and drags him onto the dance floor, among all the black-clad, silver-laden dancers, already moving to the thumping beat of the music.

Although they have gone into the mass, the two actual vampires in the crowd of wannabes stand out like diamonds mixed with pebbles. Their movements are sinuous, liquid, too graceful to be human. They move together like smoke curling in the air, like snakes beginning their mating dance. 

To his absolute surprise, Oliver is a little short of breath as he watches them, and Penelope is flushed as well. 

"Did you know he could move like that?" she asks Oliver in an undertone. 

"I got him to dance with me once," Oliver replies. "He always said he couldn't dance, but he was lying."

The heat, the sweat, Percy's body pressed up so tightly against his. He'd moved his hips in a way that made Oliver's mind go skittering down all sorts of wicked dark alleyways, his grip tightening, pulling the redhead closer. 

"Mine," he'd snarled into his ear. He'd always been possessive, but Percy brought out the worst of it. 

Percy had looked back at him, eyes slightly teasing but fond, his ginger curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. "Of course."

Looking across the dance floor, seeing him there, entwined with someone else the way he should have been entwined with Oliver - suddenly, it makes perfect sense that Percy is just confused; he's forgotten who he should really be with, and it's up to Oliver to make him remember. 

"Penny, let's dance," he says, taking her hand.

"What?" says Penelope. She'd still been watching Lydia and Percy, and now she looks like she's been hit in the face. 

"Let's dance," Oliver repeats, and he takes her hand and takes her out onto the dance floor as well. They find a spot near the vampires, and although their movements aren't as smooth, they're powered by a desire just as strong. 

As one throbbing beat ends and another begins, practically indistinguishable from the first except that the singer seems to be using different lyrics, Oliver sees his chance.

"Penny," he says quietly, leaning right next to her ear so she can hear, "I need to talk to Percy alone. Can you distract her?" A slight jerk of his head to Lydia. 

Penelope looks up at him, indecision clear in her eyes. "I'll try."

"Thank you." He gives her a quick squeeze and then leans over to tap Percy on the shoulder. 

"Mind if I cut in?"

The only sign of surprise is the slight widening of the redhead's eyes. "Are you sure?"

Oliver nods. He steps away from Penelope and towards Percy, hands going almost automatically to his waist, settling on his narrow hips like they'd never left. Percy's hands go to Oliver's shoulders, long fingers draping onto his back. Part of his mind recalls Penelope, and he hopes that she's ably distracting Lydia. She's a Ravenclaw, he thinks. She'll be fine.  
Most of his brain is focused on Percy, on those gem-like blue eyes, finding the flashes of green and purple in their depths, as he considers what to say to convince Percy that this whole thing is stupid and he still needs to come back with him and Penelope. 

"This is unexpected," Percy says. 

"I know," Oliver replies. "But I wanted to talk to you." His eyes flick over to where he last saw Lydia, now quietly talking to Penelope. "Alone."

"All right," Percy allows. "So what would you like to talk about?"

"You coming home with us," Oliver blurts out. He's fairly sure he didn't mean to lead with that, but it's out there now. "You can't stay here, Perce."

"What?"

"We can tell them you faked your death and that you weren't sure if the war was really over, and that's why you didn't come back," Oliver continues, the brain that allows him to think of Quidditch plays on the fly clicking into action. "But then Penny and I found you - because of Gemma - and we brought you back. I know your family will understand. They'll be mad, but it'll mean more to have you home."

He looks up at Percy, eyebrows raised, knowing that the puppy-dog eyes are cheating but willing to use any advantage he's got. 

Percy shakes his head, his own eyes darkened with sadness. "They wouldn't want me back. It's better for some things to stay in the ground where they belong."

"Don't be stupid!" Oliver protests. "Your family loves you. If your mum found out she could have one of her sons back ..."

Too late, he wonders if Percy knew about Fred. The brief look of heartbreak that crosses his face is answer enough.

"And in ten years? Twenty? When Ginny is older than I'll ever be, and I still look twenty-one?" 

Oliver senses he's starting to lose this argument, so in true Gryffindor fashion, he does the only thing he can. 

He acts. 

He closes the distance between them and kisses Percy on the mouth, hard, desperate. It's like kissing a statue, unyielding and cold, but Oliver pushes past it, pouring all the grief and rage and questions that have been churning inside him for the last three years into the kiss. Maybe now he'll understand, he thinks wildly. He's got to see how miserable we all are without him. He'll see he's got to come home.

Percy breaks the kiss and pulls back. Oliver's eyes eagerly rake his face, looking for signs that the kiss affected him, that he's willing to listen now. He looks for the pink in his cheeks and a quickness to his breath, but he's not flushed and he's not ...

... breathing. 

The bottom of Oliver's stomach drops out.

"I'm sorry, Ol," Percy says, and the agony in his eyes is real. "I'm so sorry."

The long, cold fingers come to cup Oliver's face, and Percy leans down to kiss him again. Too fast for him to react, Oliver feels something sharp pressing against his lower lip, then two pricks in the sensitive skin there. Warmth blooms and at first there's pain, then Percy is sucking at the wounds and it melts into pleasure, such pleasure, he can't think, he's dizzy, he's falling -


	13. we say goodbye in the pouring rain and i break down as you walk away

"Change of heart?" Lydia asks Penelope as they watch Oliver take hold of Percy's waist, his grip tight and possessive. 

Penelope shrugs. "He wanted to talk, I suppose."

"I see." Looking away, the brunette sweeps the room. "Would you like to sit down? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you're particularly interested in dancing."

"It's always been more Oliver's thing than mine," Penelope replies. Getting Lydia to a table counts as distracting her, since she guesses Oliver's main goal is just to get out of earshot. "I'd like to sit down, thank you."

Lydia gestures for her to follow, and she starts towards a table populated by more of the usual clientele. Although Lydia couldn't look less like she belonged, in her burgundy sweater and jeans, much less like someone to be obeyed, the kids at the table scatter before they're within five feet of it. 

"Was that because they think you're a film star, or because they know what you are?" Penelope asks. It's probably an insulting question, but Penelope's never met a vampire before. They touched on them briefly in Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course, but none of their professors had ever brought in a living (in a manner of speaking, anyway) specimen. 

Lydia glances at her sharply, as though checking Penelope's intent. Whatever she sees, she must decide it's worth saying, "I think superficially it's the former, but on some instinctual level, it's the latter. They can sense something is off about me, but their common sense rebels at what their guts are telling them." She takes her seat and after a moment, Penelope does the same. 

"May I ask you something?" Penelope asks.

"I suspect you'll be stewing all night if you don't," Lydia says, "so you may as well. I may not answer, though."

"How old are you?"

The brunette laughs. "I wasn't expecting that. How old do you think I am?"

"You look twenty-three, twenty-four at the outside," Penelope says, "but I'm guessing that's not true."

Lydia tilts her head in tacit acknowledgement. "No, I was twenty-three when it happened. That being said, I was born in 1792." She glances at her companion to see the effect it's had on her. 

This isn't the first time Penelope has met someone locked in at a specific age, someone whose appearance will always reflect their body at the time they ... died. But it's easy to forget that ghosts were ever human once you see them going through a wall or floating by the ceiling. It's harder to divorce the clearly solid Lydia, who needs a roof over her head, takes cabs from place to place, and loves Beaux-Arts architecture, from her humanity.

"Oh." It's all she can manage right now. "What - what happened?"

It occurs to her that maybe asking how someone died is rude, and she begins to apologize, but Lydia replies anyway. 

"I was twenty-three and unmarried. My father was beginning to despair, because that's almost guaranteeing a life of spinsterhood. Then I met him. He was an older man, you wouldn't think anything odd about him. I thought he was kind, but I hadn't taken any particular interest in him. He took one in me, though."

Although she hasn't provided any more detail, Penelope's mind populates the scene anyway - a misty garden under a full moon, Lydia with her hair piled up on her head, looking somehow softer and younger than did the woman next to her. She sees the man moving with unnatural quickness, taking hold of Lydia's arms, and then bending his head, then a scream abruptly cut off.

"May I ask what happened to him?"

Lydia looks over at her. "I don't know. He vanished about sixty years later. I expect he didn't make it to a safe place before sunrise." 

Penelope wishes she hadn't asked. Something in Lydia's eyes says she's lying. "I see." 

"What about you, Penelope Clearwater?" There's a faint smile teasing at the corners of Lydia's lips. "How does a doctor end up at a Parisian night club?"

"I'm not a doctor," Penelope corrects her. "I'm a Healer. Similar idea but different execution." It's something she's had to go over again and again with her parents, who don't understand why they can't introduce their daughter as Dr. Clearwater. "And I think you know why I'm here."

Both of them look out to Oliver and Percy, just as Oliver seizes the front of Percy's suit jacket and kisses him. Penelope gasps. Of course she and Oliver aren't _together_ or anything, but seeing him kiss someone else, like that - all that passion and desire, that need ... her heart breaks. She feels hot tears burning at her eyes, and ducks her head to try and hide them. 

It's like a train wreck, though, and she can't look away. She looks up again, and sees Percy has pulled back. It's too dark to clearly make out the look on his face, but Penelope has a feeling it's not a positive one. But then Percy's hands come up to Oliver's face, and he leans down to close the distance between them again. Penelope doesn't mean to let anyone hear it, much less even let it out, but a half-sob escapes her anyway. She bites her lip, hard, focusing on the pain instead of the tears she can feel spilling over. So Oliver's plan hadn't been to talk, after all.

"Penelope?"

Without thinking, Penelope looks over, and suddenly finds she can't look away. Lydia's already brilliant eyes seem to have flamed impossibly brighter, glowing from within as she locks onto Penelope. 

"You feel very calm," Lydia says, and in that moment, she does. Her heart rate slows, and her breathing matches it. "You are no longer concerned with the world. You only need to focus on me."

Penelope feels herself nodding, because that's true. The rest of the room is fading to an unimportant grey, and whatever she'd been worried about before just ... doesn't matter now.

"You don't need to think anymore," Lydia continues. "Just relax. Let it wash over you. It feels right."

The grey slips from the periphery of her vision to the center of it, until the only clear thing left is Lydia's face. 

As they stare at each other, Penelope slowly realizes that Lydia's eyes are rimmed with red, and the pale skin of her cheek is marred with a single, pinkish-red line. But before she can speak, the grey sweeps across her vision, and she knows no more.


	14. you will see the stars come out

With Oliver's arm over Percy's shoulders and looking very convincingly out-of-it, it only takes a few words of explanation ("My friend is drunk, he can't be seen like this by his fans; is there another way we can exit?") before one of the security guards is seeing them out through a back exit. It empties onto an alley, small and dark, perfect for their purposes. He glances up at the moon, watching as it slips behind a bank of clouds.

 _Stars, hide your fires,_ he thinks miserably.

Carefully, he slips Oliver's arm off and leans him against the alley wall. Oliver, semi-conscious in the blood swoon, sags but doesn't fall. For a moment, Percy just looks at the other man, taking in the strong line of his jaw and the broad set of his shoulders. His memories of the Quidditcher had idealized him, smoothing out flaws and compensating for weakness, but having the real thing is so much better. . . even if it won't be for much longer.

Sensing another presence, he turns and sees Lydia leading in Penelope. Under Lydia's glamour, Penelope looks docile, mild. After a request from Lydia, she goes and stands next to Oliver. 

"I don't like this," Percy says, staring at Penelope. The spark in her dark eyes is gone, leaving them like glossy marbles.

He turns to look at Lydia, and she plants her hands on his chest and shoves him, hard. The force of it sends him into the alley wall, head smacking against the brick hard enough to kill a human.

"I didn't like that," she spits, pointing back to the nightclub. He realizes she's crying, drying blood smearing her cheeks as she furiously wipes at them. "But I still had to watch you do it."

Percy gets to his feet, a little shaky. "I did what I had to do. By any means necessary, wasn't that the decision?"

"You didn't have to enjoy it." She crosses her arms over her chest, cheeks blotchy with blood, and watches him straighten his tie, his suit coat. 

"I didn't enjoy it," Percy retorts. "Kissing someone like that, knowing it couldn't mean what it used to, what we're going to do now - Lydia, are you sure we have to do this?"

"What other choice do we have?" Lydia asks, but doesn't give him the chance to answer. "We can't have anyone knowing about us. It's too dangerous. Sure, maybe they keep the secret for ten, fifteen years. Then they're not thinking, let it slip, and then what? What about when your sister comes looking for you, and Lourdes' gang finds her first? Or your dad, your brothers? Your mum?"

"Lydia, stop," Percy says, but she pushes on relentlessly, determined to drive her point in until he'd bleed out if he removed it.

"And letting them go - I'm sure you think they would be just fine going on knowing you're alive but not with them, with your family, but they won't be. We could run, go to Berlin, to Venice, to Moscow, maybe cross the ocean and go to Los Angeles or New Orleans, but they would follow you. No matter where we went, they would track you down again." She looks at the two slack figures against the wall, her face softening a little. "They love you too much not to."

"I thought you hated them," Percy says.

"I have to respect anyone who's so stupid about the people they love," she replies, and her eyes meet his. Despite himself, his lips quirk, and he closes the distance between them, leaning down to kiss her quickly.

"Fine," he acquiesces. "Just ... make it good. I owe them that much."

"Of course." Moving to Oliver first, Lydia gently cups his face in her hands, bleary hazel eyes meeting bright green ones. "Oliver." Her voice is sweet, soft. "I need you to listen to me. Are you listening?"

Slowly, he nods. Still woozy and pliable from the blood swoon, the compulsion easily takes over him, settling around his mind as neatly as a powerful Memory Charm.

"You came to Paris with Penelope," Lydia tells him, her voice never losing its careful, soothing cadence. "You had your pictures, and you looked and looked, but you couldn't find anyone who knew this man. Finally, you found a woman at a convenience store who knew him, and she told you where he lived." She names an address in the same area as theirs, but not near it. "You went there, and you knocked on the door. It opened, and there he was. The man in your pictures. His name is Pascal Dumont, and he lives there with his wife, Martine, and their daughter. He looks just like Percy Weasley, but he is not him.

"It was then that you and Penelope came to the realization that Percy was really dead, that you had only seen his ghost, a shade of him. It was something you'd suspected for a long time. You thanked Mr. Dumont for his time and decided that since you were already in Paris, you should make a holiday of it."

Lydia paints them a beautiful, romantic weekend, of a day at the Louvre and dinner at a tiny cafe in the yellow pools of streetlights, of a whirlwind day sightseeing and that ends with them, here, behind a cheesy vampire bar, a little drunk and tired, but so happy. 

"And now, here, you finally realize how you really feel about Penelope," Lydia finishes. "Whatever is truly in your heart about her, you know the truth of it now. Percy, what time is it?"

He checks his watch. "Half past midnight."

"Half past midnight," she repeats quietly, then resumes. "In three minutes, you will wake up with these memories intact." 

Leaving Oliver, she moves to Penelope, doing much the same as she had before. Once their eyes are locked together, Lydia begins telling her the same tale, of her and Oliver's beautiful, romantic weekend that began with a sharp disappointment but turned into a near-perfect holiday. 

"In ninety seconds," she tells Penelope, "you will wake up with these memories intact."

She turns to Percy, holding her hand out to him. "We need to go."

"Of course." He takes her hand, then looks over his shoulder at the two remnants of his humanity that he's forcibly cutting out - again. His mouth opens slightly like he's about to speak, but then he shakes his head and turns away. "Let's go."

One moment, they are there, and the next, they are not. 

About a minute later, Penelope and Oliver come to like swimmers emerging from a lake, inhaling deeply, somewhat disoriented. Penelope looks at Oliver. 

"Are you feeling better now?" she asks, Lydia's lie about Oliver becoming overwhelmed by the heat in the club settling into their minds and becoming the truth.

"Yeah. I think I just needed some fresh air." He exhales, pressing his hands to the wall behind him, and tries to compose himself, turning to her. "Hey, Penny?"

"Hm?" She looks up at him with those large, dark eyes, her brows slightly lifted, and Oliver suddenly feels much calmer. This is the right time, the right place. Buoyed by the drinks he'd had earlier, his own irrepressible Gryffindor bravery, and a rock-solid feeling of certainty, he says,

"I love you."

Penelope's face registers surprise at first, then her lips curl up at the corners and her eyes warm. Instead of responding verbally, she steps closer to him, curling her arms around his neck, and stretching up on her tiptoes, kisses him. He puts his hands on her hips and pulls her closer. They break apart, identical silly grins on their faces, and Penelope tilts her head back, face bathed in silvery light as the clouds pass by the moon. 

"Look at the stars," she says. "We could make a wish."

Oliver doesn't look away from her face. "Why?"

Penelope beams at him, and goes in for another kiss.


	15. we are all illuminated

"That's new," Oliver comments as they pass by a set of sconces flanking the door leading into the Great Hall. They're not decorated with the iconic Hogwarts 'H,' but have all four House animals curled around the base.

"I like them, though," Penelope comments. "A bit less staid."

"Mum! Da!" Out of the crowd of black-clad figures, one darts towards them, dark blonde braids flying behind her.

Oliver grins broadly, bending down to meet his daughter's embrace, picking her up and swinging her around.

"There's my girl! How's Hufflepuff treating you, then?" He sets her down and she flings her arms around her mother next. A bit more than a month away at Hogwarts has not yet taught Elisabeth Wood to be embarrassed of loving her parents. 

"We're right next to the kitchens! It's full of plants and sunshine!" she says. "Can I take you to our common room?" A beat. "Am I allowed?"

"We'll talk to Professor McIntyre later," Penelope says. "Where's your brother?"

Lissa shrugs. "He was supposed to be here. He's probably running over his plays, again. That's like all he does."

Penelope glances sidelong at Oliver with a smirk on her lips, and Oliver looks fit to burst with pride.

"That's my son!" He laughs. "Has he been looking after you, even with the Quidditch?"

Lissa nods as the three leave the Great Hall, the current student leading the two former ones. "He tries. Oh! Rose! Come here! Where's Scorpius?"

A girl with a head of thick red curls in a Gryffindor uniform joins them. "Dunno. He said he'd be here soon, but you know what soon means for him." 

"Who's Scorpius?" Penelope asks after receiving her hug from Rose Weasley. Weasley loyalty means that she and Oliver still get invited to most family functions, and Molly had fussed over Donal and Lissa like they were her own grandbabies. 

"Scorpius Malfoy," says Rose. "Is it okay if he watches the game with us?"

Oliver opens his mouth to answer, and judging by his face, it's based entirely on the presence of the name "Malfoy." Before he can speak, Penelope gives his arm a firm squeeze.  
"Of course," she answers for them. He looks at her sharply and she shakes her head.

Scorpius Malfoy finds them on their way out to the pitch, a boy with a pointed face and pale blond hair just like his father's, but with a surprising dimple that shows up whenever his mouth approximates a smile. Introductions are made, and despite himself, Oliver immediately takes to the Malfoy boy for one very important reason. As soon as he sees Oliver, his eyes go huge, and he stares at Lissa like he's been betrayed.

"Lissa, you didn't tell me your dad was Oliver Wood! He led England to its first World Cup in centuries!" Oliver beams as the quintet continues out to the pitch, the three first-years falling into one of those all-consuming conversations, leaving the adults to talk among themselves. 

"D'you think Hermione knows?" Oliver asks, eyes shifting between Rose's curls and Scorpius' slightly unkempt fair hair. 

"I don't think she'd care," Penelope points out. "Ron, on the other hand. .." Her voice trails off. 

Oliver nods. "I think I'll let Rose broach that one." 

They get to the Quidditch pitch and Oliver looks up at it, rapt in its majesty, as he always has. It doesn't matter that he's been to every one of Donal's games since he got Beater his second year. Every time he walks onto the pitch, he is overcome by the power and beauty of the game.

"Da's doing his Quidditch thing again," Lissa explains to her friends, who are wondering why they've stopped walking.

"Uncle Oliver, you see Quidditch pitches all the time," says Rose.

"Just you wait, my girls," Oliver says, putting his hands on their shoulders. "One day this pitch will mean as much to you as it does to me. This was the first place I ever played proper Quidditch that wasn't just batting around balls with my da."

"This is also a place where you're creating a block, Ollie," Penelope says, putting her hands on her husband's shoulders and gently shoving him. Taking the hint, the group continues in.

They find seats, and Rose twists in her seat to wave to Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny, who are here to support James' first game. After Rose has turned back, Penelope sees Ginny point at Rose, then Scorpius, then look at Harry as though expecting an explanation. Harry just shrugs, as clueless as his wife.

The first match of the year soon begins. It's Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, and when Donal comes flying out, leading the rest of the team in pride of place, Oliver and Penelope cheer as loudly as they can. Donal spots them and gives them a huge grin and a wave. 

"That's the first time he's looked that happy to see us in a while," Penelope comments in an undertone to Oliver. 

"It's Quidditch," Oliver replies as though it's obvious. "Of course he's happy to see us!"

The game is thrilling, and the commentator, a fifth-year Slytherin girl, takes several opportunities to point out that the new captain of the Gryffindor team is carrying on the legacy of his family by following his father's footsteps. Penelope suspects she's got her eye on more than just the game - and judging by the way Donal looks at her during time-outs, it's mutual. 

The lights around the pitch click on one by one as true night falls over the Scottish highlands. Gryffindor stays neck and neck with Hufflepuff, and the score never edges past a twenty point lead for either side. The roar from the stands is so loud and incomprehensible that even if Donal had been able to pick out his father's voice, he wouldn't have been able to understand the advice he was yelling.

Things end very abruptly when Gryffindor's Seeker, a slight black girl with waist-length braids, suddenly emerges with her hand clasped around something small, gold, and struggling to escape her grip. It seems to take the rest of the team a moment, and the crowd a few more, to realize what's happened, but when they do, the roar is unbelievable. When Oliver and Penelope surge to their feet, cheering and applauding their boy, Lissa is right there with them, putting family ahead of House for tonight. 

They meet up with Donal after the game, and he's so hopped up on glee and adrenaline that he's willing to be seen in public with his parents - even going so far as to hug his mum.

"Donal, you were wonderful!" Penelope says, giving him a squeeze. He grins at her, and she sees his father's manic energy beaming from behind his dark eyes.

"Da, did you see that Starfish and Stick Wellington did?" Donal demands, turning to him. As he pulls away from her, the conversation quickly devolves into a mess of terms and gestures that Penelope understands, but only to an extent. Scorpius joins them, apparently quite eager to talk Quidditch with The Oliver Wood.

They start back to the castle, and Penelope peppers Lissa and Rose with questions about Hogwarts - how they like it, if they feel they fit in their Houses, whether they like their professors.

They're passing the Owlery, cresting the hill overlooking the ruined part of the castle, when Oliver suddenly stops stock still.

"Penny," he says, choked. Penelope gestures for the girls to wait and moves to her husband, looking at him first, and seeing an utterly foreign expression on his face.

Terror.

"Ollie, what is - " She follows his line of sight and her own voice dies in her throat.

Walking slowly along the ruins is a tall, slim figure, bright red hair like a beacon. It looks over at them, and it's enough to see the reflection of moonlight off a pair of spectacles. It doesn't seem to notice them, though, and keeps walking. Then, in the space of a blink, it's gone. 

"Da?" Lissa. She's stepped up next to them and looks up at Oliver with worry on her face. "Who was that?"

Oliver shakes himself out of it and looks down at his daughter. "Hogwarts is full of ghosts, my love," he tells her. "I guess your old da forgot that."

He turns back to the kids and continues in what Penelope can tell is an artificially bright voice, "Now, who wants to hear about how I led England to the Cup?"

"Not again!" says Rose, but Oliver corrals them off, regaling them with the story. 

It takes Penelope a moment longer to shake off the eerie feeling, and a sudden recollection of a night in Paris, where the moon was just this high -

"Mum?" Donal's voice is quiet. "You and Da have a picture of him. Who was that?"

"Someone who was very important to us," Penelope replies, "who we lost a long time ago." She smiles, putting a hand on her son's shoulder. "It's like your father said. Hogwarts is full of ghosts.” A pause, then she squeezes his shoulder. “Now, I believe there's a celebration happening in the Gryffindor common room that's missing its guest of honor."

She and Donal start away, although the boy glances over his shoulder as though looking for something. 

In the shadow of the ruins, a figure stands, stock still, staring past the ruins like he can still see the people on the hill. A woman joins him, her green eyes luminous in the darkness, and reaches up to gently remove the glasses from his face, tucking them into the pocket of his suit jacket. They embrace, his hold on her tight, like he's sinking and she's keeping him afloat. When they part, there are dark stains on his cheeks. She holds out her hand, and he takes it.

One moment they are there, and the next, they are not.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! This has been in various stages and permutations for over a year, and I'm so happy and proud to finally release it into the world. Thanks so much to my ever-patient sounding board, Chris, and to my amazing beta Sydney. You guys are the real heroes here. 
> 
> I also made a [tumblr post](http://theheadgirl.tumblr.com/post/152321248805/when-the-damage-is-done-on-january-13-1998-percy) with pretty people!


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